


the fangs that tore his father's throat

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Sam Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Biting, Blood, Bloodplay, Feral Dean, Feral Sam, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Omega Dean Winchester, Omegaverse, Pre series, could be read as wincest if you want, strange cultural norms, weecesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 05:56:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5279306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's pack is little and broken, but it is his and he will do anything for it. Monsters can wear the skin of men, and people fall just as easily as wolves. </p><p>Or: the brothers Winchester kill someone, and cover it up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the fangs that tore his father's throat

**Author's Note:**

> otherwise known as: the fic in which you can choose how platonic the boys are. and not part of the wider 'sharper words and teeth' verse -- stands alone.
> 
>  
> 
> title is from a rudyard kipling poem.

Dean’s seventeen. There is a man, and he hangs limp and dead in the corner of his room, a streak of blood and piss and empty flesh.

There is a man, and he is dead.

 

\--

 

Hunters kill monsters. Sometimes, monsters look like men. Sometimes, monsters are men.

Is it so bad that rather than killing a monster-shaped monster, or a monster that looks like a man, Dean killed a man-who-was-a-monster?

No.

Maybe.

 

\--

 

This is why the man is dead: “Little whore, little bitch, c’mere over here and hop on my knot -- c’mon -- heyyy baby, I know you can hear me.”

 

\--

 

Actually, this is why the man is dead: Dad is asleep.

He’s not asleep, not really. He’s drunk. Blacked out. Fingers slack. around the neck of a beerbottle.

Dean says asleep because Sammy is still a baby, no matter what’s happening in his mouth (teeth pushing through, gums shredded, breath that reeks of carrion) or to his fucking knot; he’s Sammy, not Sam; he’s a fucking kid.

So Dean says asleep, and takes Sam out into buttfuck, West Virginia. The Appalachian mountains are the spine of a starved beast, and the area is ruined by great gouges of poverty. Oxytocin and incest. Confederate flags and the bones of the earth, jutting up in metalyards and meth-labs. Fucking trailerparks, stickers declaring that MARRIAGE IS AN ALPHA AND AN OMEGA and that omegas wanting to fuck omegas are the reason the world is ending.

Knotheads and bitches. Dean sees six omegas marked with a bite at the nape before he stops counting, and thanks God for his suppressants.

Sam’s at his side. Too old to hold hands, but not wanting to stray -- he stands close, elbows brushing with each stride, his alphascent (tarmac, metal, rotting apples; rich, organic, thick wafting waves of it) and he’s got this tenseness in his face, these white and painfully straight lines.

He's in perpetual pain, Dean knows. Poor kid's shot up near enough a foot in six months, bones stretched and creaking; Dean's had his share of growing pains but it's nothing compared to the wild unfettered growth of an alpha. 

And there are those absurd teeth. Slashing through his gums. Cutting his lips to bits, lips and tongue and inside of his cheek, because he's not yet used to their sharpness. His breath smells of blood. His scent -- warm and complex -- is constantly shot through a coppery thread. 

 

\--

 

And that is when the alpha sings out at Dean. 

 

\--

 

They're on a residential street: the sky is grey and hanging low, the air filled with a fine mist of rain. Houses shuttered and slumped, staring blindly out, snarling at each other like angry dogs (through fragmented, filthy aircon vents) and Sam's hungry, Dean smells it, and he's got ten dollars crumpled in the lining of his pocket and maybe he can wrangle a good meal out of that. That and his smile, he could charm the waitress, coo endearments and maybe get Sammy an extra portion of fries. The boy's hungry all the time, starving, desperate for meat, carbs, whatever he can get. And even though eating hurts him -- those poor, ruined gums -- he has to do it. 

Dean wants to mulch the food up, feed it to Sam in babybird bites, find a way to feed him that won't pain him.

But then --

"Hey, bitchboy!" and it's a low, drawling snarl; proprietary, demanding, throbbing with alpha command like blood throbs beneath a stormdark bruise. Dean's skin crawls.

He wants to rip him apart, wants to crunch his bones, wants -- wants --

But it's not like he can. He lifts his eyes up, peering across the road, and there, framed in the rictus of a porch, is an alpha with a gut pressing hard against fraying jeans, a t-shirt riding up to show an inch or so of white starfish flesh. He's not got a beer in his hand, but somehow he gives the impression of having a beer -- like not having alcohol to hand is an anomaly.

Dean thinks, suddenly and uncomfortably, of Dad.

Of the fug of alcohol plastered over alphascent.

"Hey bitchboy," says the alpha again. Dean's frozen. Dean's static. Dean's hard eyes and hard mouthed and a skinful of hate. He's also judging.

 

\--

 

The rule of the world, the rule of an omega who fights against alphas: judge quick, strike quick, get away quicker.

 

\--

 

Dean's had more experience than he cares to admit fighting alphas.

 

\--

 

Anyway. The alpha pops his thumbs in his pockets, tips his hips forward, crows, "Hey bitchboy, I can smell yer from here."

"Can you?" Dean calls back. His voice is void of overt challenge, and he slackens his posture. Shoulders down, chin tilted up and to one side, the barest hint of throat flashed.

Sam's snarling. A babysnarl, cracking with puberty. He's about as threatening as a kitten.

Dean sneaks a hand up his brother's spine, presses a thumb into the meat of his shoulder, trills the pads of his fingers over Sam's nape. _I'm here, I'm here,_ says the gesture.

 "I've gotta knot for you," says the alpha. He grabs his crotch, sticks out the point of his tongue. "Want it boy? Want it? Come on and grab ahold. Have a ride."

Dean wants to eat the man's bones. He wants to carve out his heart. He  _would_ \-- but Dad's hunting, and he can't afford trouble. Not here, not now, not in a tiny town carved from the flank of the mountains, not in a place where everyone knows each other -- and he's pretty certain that a lace-edged curtain is twitching, curious moonfaces peering out, a scene from Deliverance. 

His fingers tighten on Sam's nape, just a hint. Sam relaxes against him. Dean smells the hot throb of his heart, the pulse of violence -- oh, how Sammy wants to kill something. 

But he can't allow Sam to get himself into a fight he can't win. And Dean can't skin alive an alpha for the crime of catcalling -- if he did do that, then he'd drench the entire Bible Belt in red-red- _red_.

"C'mon Sammy," he says. Fingers pinching the soft, warm skin at his brother's neck.

And then the unforgivable --

"That's it little knothead, do what your bitch says."

 

\--

 

Hit hard, then get away. 

Dean's fist sinks into the alpha's ample gut, and he doubles over -- coughing and wheezing -- but Dean doesn't get away in time, because the alpha is faster than he looks, grip bruising tight around Dean's wrist, flipping him over, onto his back. Dean smacks the ground, thunderclap pain ricocheting from one corner of his skull to the other. The alpha smirks, teeth sharp and yellow, and Dean thinks of Sam's teeth -- pink edged, but very white underneath -- and lunges back up, barking out --

"Get the fuck away Sammy!"

\-- but Sammy doesn't listen. Dick. Cunt. Stupid beautiful bastard. He leaps onto the alpha's back, bites bright red chunks from the side of his neck --

\-- and then the alpha throws him off as well, and Sam falls like so much wreckage.

 

\--

 

"Dean, you did what you had to do," says Sam. A bruise ripens on the side of his face. 

"C'mere," Dean says, and Sam obeys -- because Dean is packleader, even if he isn't an alpha, even if he is

(bitch)

something else, something different, something 

(bitch)

not like Sam. But not like anything else either. 

Dean presses his face into Sam's hair. His brother is only a shade shorter than him now, and soon he'll be taller, broader, stronger. The joys of having an alpha for a baby bro. 

Sam smells of sweat and blood and  _home_ and Dean expects to feel guilty, to feel something -- anything -- because he's just killed a man. But all he feels is relief. The wash of Sam's scent soothes him, sweeps away all the thorny ugly feelings ready to clog up his throat. 

 

 --

 

This is how the man died: in his own front room.

More precisely: he throws Sam off. Turnsand legged it for his house, and without thinking Dean had followed -- the man's scent spikes with violence, red and hot and huge, and he knows that this is what we in the trade call 'a strategic retreat'.

This is Virginia. The man will have a fucking armory; he doesn't need an armory, just needs a gun, one bullet or two, one is enough to kill them both because Dean refuses to live without Sam. 

Stand your ground be fucked, thinks Dean, and barges his way into the house.

He's right. The alpha has pulled a pistol from the depths of his coat, and Dean's got a knife, and he slits the man's throat in a sweep. Blood slaps his face, wet and warm and red-red-red. 

 

\--

 

That's how the alpha dies. 

And now, Sam's squirming in Dean's arms. "Dean, wait, lemme," he says. He gentles his fingers over Dean's face. "We've got to do something bout this."

"I just killed a man in the middle of a fuckin' street. This is assfuckville, nowhere, but they're not complete savages. Police'll be here soon."

Sam presses a kiss to the corner of Dean's mouth. Dean's brow furrows. His brother's scent is spiking, changing, turning warmer, richer, warm earth and warmer rain. 

He's also purring. It's a revoltingly content sound, considering that there's a cooling body less than six feet from them. 

"You'll work it out," Sam says, and kisses the other side of Dean's mouth, like he's trying to smooth out the snarling edges to it. 

This is the wrong way round.  

Dean catches his brother's shoulders--spurs of bone press against his palms--and turns him around, nudging Sam's long hair aside with his nose, freeing up the expanse of neck for his teeth. He nips at Sam's nape.

Sam stiffens. 

"What're --"

"Shh. I'm your packleader, right? I'm your 'mega, you're my alpha. Right?"

"Uh-huh," chirrups Sam. He's slackening in Dean's grasp, pressing his sharp little shoulderblades -- like vestigial wings -- up against Dean's chest, dipping his chin, bearing more of his nape, urging Dean on. 

Tongue sticking against chapped lips, Dean huffs a moist puff of breath onto Sam's neck. Sam shudders again. "Oh  _Dean_."

He drags his tongue over Sam's nape, tasting sweat, fear, alpha. The spike of his brother's blood. 

And he opens his mouth up, and bites down, bites til he tastes blood, bites until Sam cries out -- sharp and shrill, the most wonderful sound Dean's ever heard. "You're mine, right?" he says, voice a little muffled on account of the fact that he's got a mouthful of Sam.

"Yes," says Sam. "Always."

Dean bites down harder. Sam slumps even more, but that doesn't matter, because Dean's got his arms looped around Sam's midsection, holding him up. Chewing at his skin, the warm and delicious throb of Sam's blood thickening on his tongue, between his teeth. He sucks a little, then laves his tongue over the mark. He feels giddy with wonder. 

Sammy and him, him and Sammy.

(pack, pack, pack)

 

\--

 

The police show up not long after. 

They find a suicide note speaking of a long affair with another alpha. 

No one really believes it, but those strange boys are long gone, and so there is no one to pin the blame on. 

 

\--

 

Sam grows his hair long to hide the claiming mark. Dad wouldn't understand and, besides, he's spending more and more time _asleep._  

Sam has Dean. Dean has Sam. 

Pack, together -- little and broken and home.  _Home_. 

Dean's seventeen, and he killed a man, and he's got Sam snug in the crook of his arm, and every now and then (when Dad isn't looking) he nudges the long fall of his brother's scraggy hair to one side, admires the storm-black blood-red bruise blossoming at the top of his spine, and he smiles. 

Sometimes men are monsters, and monsters are men, and honestly?

It doesn't fucking matter. Dean killed for Sam, and he does it again and again, and the only thing that changes is he has to heft more hair out of the way before he bites a fresh claim into Sam's nape. 

Pack is pack is pack. There's nothing else in the world. 

 


End file.
